


Crooked Young

by Theboys



Series: Crooked Young [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Graphic Description, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy tastes like sugar and liquid sin, and Dean just likes the way it feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Young

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Crooked Young by Bring Me The Horizon.
> 
> There's some graphic description below, so, if that's not your thing, turn back now. If you're good with that, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (spoiler located in end notes, if you're wary of description).

Dean likes the way they feel.

It’s what started it in the first place, cause he just wanted to be able to take them home, cradle them close and frame them. Bind sleeves together and paint, wanted them like leather cuffs on wrists.

He just likes the warmth, and he likes the end.

Sammy’s so good for him. Lets Dean rub callused fingertips to the tops of Sam’s knees, boy-smooth skin, and it’s not the same but it’s so fucking close it tastes like spun sugar.

Licks the crease where his knee meets thigh, and Sammy laughs so long, s’like light, burns like the sun and Dean’s gone blind.

Wrestles Sam so gentle onto the vulnerable valley between collarbone and thigh, and he’s on the bed. Sam’s wiggly, Dean’s fingers pressing knife sharp into baby flesh that collects around Sam’s hips.

_Tickles, Dean_

And Dean drapes his body, denim against the soft pants that Sam wears to sleep, got Ninja Turtles on them, repeating masked faces.

Sam squirms under the added weight, huffs his breath out in moist little pants against his pillow.

_I know, baby. Lemme tickle you, then_

And he does, pushes and prods with insistent fingers, under thighs, stopping short just before the crease conjoining leg to ass, gentle elbows and the river of Sam’s neck.

Watches, water in a sandstorm, as Sam’s skin flushes, raspberry and peaches, little nipples arching up from underneath his white t-shirt.

He grips the sheets tight-tight with his spindly fingers and his legs pop open with a crack of joints as his back rejoins the bed.

He catches his breath.

_Don’t do that, I hate when you do that_

Smiles, God-bright into Dean’s face, church glass eyes and drink of sin.

Lets his neck flop gingerly to the side when Dean descends, skin so pretty, looks like Christmas and presents, mistletoe. Dean licks gently just under his left earlobe, and his dick springs to life in his jeans as Sam releases one needy little moan, baby’s first breath.

Dean touches, and God it’s right, keeps nipping and sucking unmarred flesh until his tongue is tingling with the phantom flavor.

Sammy tastes like summer rain.

His boy doesn’t move except to stutter out half breaths, small stomach arching and falling with the surrender of air.

Sam’s little dick pokes at his lower abdomen, and his face is dark pink when he flicks his eyes up to meet Dean’s face.

_Sorry, Dean, sorry_

Dean flinches, just a little because

it’s not fucking time, it’s not right for this right now, and it’s gonna get ruined, Sammy’s gonna ruin him.

Sam’s fingers slither up his cheek, and he sees the bright shine of tear tracks on Sammy’s face, and he’s red again, but it’s not right, it’s not the right _one_

_Dean, m’sorry, try it again. Try it again._

Dean can’t move, mesmerized by the way he looks like glass, window to Sam’s soul, because light belongs in there, and it’s bright like the stars. He allows his own fingers to stretch to his brother’s face, smooths the tears in and takes one giant breath.

_Ok. Okay, Sammy, don’t cry. I won’t stop._

his brother nods, stiff, baby bird bones moving in his neck, and Dean licks there too, exposed collarbone, feels rather than hears Sam’s shudder sigh.

He tugs Sam’s t-shirt up and over his head, flings it off of the twin bed they’re sharing. It hits the ground with a soft thump. Sammy’s sweet, lifts his hips and braces his weight on flat feet.

Dean shimmies his pants down thighs and calves, spares a glance for the way Sam’s dick is at half mast, the way it twitches as pre-come wells up minutely.

Kisses his way up the pretty body, hairless and perfect, nips lightly at the softness between Sam’s legs because that’s his favorite. He always wants that, and he’s never not gotten it. This is where it all began.

His boy is dusky all over, and he lives for the in-between, the way sun meets earth and this is his horizon, because Sam’s plaint, loose like string, and he’s _allowed_ this. He’s provided with this instance.

Dean watches the way his fingerprints press into Sam’s skin, sugar in coffee, and fade to black.

Sam squirms once, and Dean immediately moves lower, because now it’s time, and Sammy can feel it, knocks his legs open a little wider so Dean can get to the soft

Dean’s hands are trembling and they’re only permitted that when it’s at this moment. He’s got to have steady hands, for what he does. Got to be precise.

Sam’s already wet, inside out, squelch of lubricant dribbling down his crack to pool against Dean’s waiting fingers. Sam makes his first on-purpose noise, kitten mewl, and Dean stabs home, knows Sammy’s all stretched out, did it himself, earlier this morning.

Sam was stuck in that haze of awareness between sleep and clarity, soft light.

It’s filthy tight, like a noose for his finger, and he wiggles the tip of thumb right in alongside his index and his middle, just to hear Sammy speak, way he always does, right there.

_I waited, waited, Dean_

And Dean wants to inhale that, wants Sammy to paint those words on his bones, cause they’re everything he’s ever been offered, all that he’s provided. This makes it alright. He can proceed to the finish line, cause Sam’s waiting at the end, bated breaths

welcome-open legs.

He nudges the bundle of nerves gently, just to see the flush trickle to Sam’s curled-up toes, first few tears leak from locked up eyelids.

His dick hurts, makes him wanna cry right alongside Sammy, but it’s not ready, can’t do that, not here.

He lets his zipper chafe against it, feels like a malignant tumor.

Bites the paler flesh surrounding Sam’s rigid cock until he’s painted in blood-tinged skin, and his dick swings, jerks like wheat in the wind.

He screws his fingers in tighter, scissors them a little wider and lets his thumb massage Sam’s cavern opening, sore and raw and it’s so pretty, he might love that most of all.

Sam presses his fingers to his mouth as he comes, tiny squeal, he’s so fucking good, so quiet, and Dean catches his come in the palm of his hand, feeds it back into his hole, just like always, til Sam’s whimpering, and he’s chafed with lube and slippery white, leaking on the soft that Dean loves so much.

_Love you. Love you so much. Fuck, you know that though. Don’t you?_

Sam’s tired, body naked and numb, little legs still crooked open invitingly, and Dean wants to bend right back down, but he’s got to resist, because that time has passed.

He covers him up, Sam gets cold at night, Dean thinks he’s too thin, needs four good meals a day to keep up with his growth. He feeds him, but he likes his boy anyway he can get him.

Pretty birdcage ribs and bleeding heart.

S’dark, when he leaves later, Sammy locked tight inside, sigils and runes, salt planted in every crevice, way Dean’s done it since Dad died. Likes it to be in the earth, not so easy to disturb. Doesn’t want him to wake up and be concerned, cause he knows.

He knows.

Mouth’s red like cherries, the kind on milkshakes. Maraschinos, Dean thinks they’re called.

She’s so quiet, and Dean’s dick’s so hard he has to blink the bright white spots away from his eyes cause he knew that, he could tell she would be so sweet, and that’s his favorite.

Hair like spun gold, eyes are dimmer, murky brown, but he can live with that, doesn’t look too hard when he’s there.

She’s perfectly still, and it’s perfection, he lets his dick rub against her exposed arm, and it’s clad in denim, because he doesn’t want her to see that. That’s not a part of the plan.

Her fingers twitch once and she stills of her own volition. He likes her. He wants to talk about how cotton candy delectable she is, melts on his tongue like liquor.

She starts to move when she sees the shine, and it’s a scalpel, wants to be gentle with her, cause she’s been so good for him, let her pretty pink body open, didn’t wear any sleeves. It’s so nice when they aren’t wearing sleeves.

_sorry, I’m sorry, this part’s hard. I know. Please, don’t cry._

He has to see, has to test it. She could be so good for him and be all wrong and he’ll have wasted all his time. He has to know what it feels like when it’s breathing, when everything’s attached with wires, blue to blue and red to red.

First slice is clean, hands are tremble-free, knows he’s ready.

She screams.

It’s dark outside, nothing but farmland in this slice of Texas, sound makes him angry anyway. She’s not supposed to be like that.

He slices a little deeper, and her cry bubbles in her throat. He pauses, looks right down at her, and realizes her eyes aren’t muddy at all. They’re light brown, flecks of light and dusk. He can see the blood pool on her lower lip where she bites down so hard, and he smiles, grins big like the galaxy.

He was right.

She’s so good.

It’s clean, he knows just where to slice to get at her carotid, and she gurgles, but he doesn’t mind that, it’s soothing, he just has to wait for her to stop shaking. He can’t cut when she’s thrashing around, metal clanging against knobs of bone.

She’s finally still, so he can begin again, and it’s smoother this time. It’s losing warmth, even as he stands, and he knows time is of the essence, it won’t be _right_ if he can’t hurry it along. He won’t make mistakes. He’s never messed this up.

He scrapes on the reverse methodically, knows to remove the connective tissue, and it’s easier and less messy than it used to be. He takes a small slice from the arm, because he began there, and then he moves to the flesh inside her thighs, tiny blonde hairs and the residual sweat-musk of fear.

It’s pungent down there, and Dean can see how damp she is, how scared she must’ve been. Dean’s hand shakes slightly as he bears down on the scalpel.

He wouldn’t hurt her. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. She was wrong, for that.

He gets three good sized portions, and they’re larger than they need to be, but it shrinks when it dries, and he doesn’t want it to be too small to touch, later. He wants the frilled edges, at the end.

He stretches it quickly, he’ll do more when he’s home, this is all the start. Quick glycerin treatment, and then he packs everything into the cooler, sheets spread out on ice, and he can see a tiny mole that he missed in the tippy corner.

That’s fine. He’ll never touch there.

It’s not til he’s back home, off white house and hunter-green lawn, stretched out so close to Sammy that he feels the brush of warm blood at the edge of his skin, that he can breathe again.

“M’back, Sammy,” he whispers, quiet-like, cause he doesn’t actually want him to wake.

Sam reaches behind his back, his own wrist brushing against his curved spine, and guides Dean’s hand to the cleft of his ass, even warmer than the rest of him. Dean can feel the slip-slide of earlier, knows Sammy never washed, wore it, just for him.

His air’s stuck in his throat, toxic.

“You all finished, Dean?”

Dean nods, knows Sam can feel it against the pillow they both share.

“I did good, Sam. I did good, right?” He’s gotta ask. Every time. It fits in, and it’s time for this section now, and he’s got to say this. Sam knows it as well as he does.

His hipbones bump against the ripe of Sam’s ass and he’s been so hard for so long, and he wiggles his fingers in the slick and he’s coming, makes Sammy even wetter, scattered showers. His dick makes involuntary slapping sounds against Sam’s thighs, and he hears his brother sigh, first sunrise.

“You were perfect.”

And that’s the same, too.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> serialkiller!Dean.


End file.
